Friday, 17 March 2017

A Colouring Book


A peacock-tailed village fast astride the valley side.
Marinade of young in old folk's coloured flavour.
Perambulating in back bush thoughts,
knee-grazed and child-eyed, with
mufflered men garrulously fag-bent and pint-ward.
Women, scarfed linoleum bright,
shine from cold-coloured rooms,
door-stepped inward/outward facing in schism minds,
scolding the short-trousered ragamuffins in their daring do.
For the transfusion is complete upon the handshake 
of understanding of what lies there, therein. 
The village slag-inked and line-hatched by 
transient-handed generations in sleep and step,
until the morrow weaves another peacock feather
into the nest of next time in mind.
Or so they whisper.

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